


The Betting Man

by Rehfan



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Cage Fights, Other, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-18 07:57:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1420525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rehfan/pseuds/Rehfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Victorian London. John Watson is in debt up to his eyes. He has to fight his way out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Betting Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [abundantlyqueer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/abundantlyqueer/gifts).



> For AQ and her fertile imagination.
> 
> "...as a conductor of light, you are unbeatable."

He fell against the edge of the wooden barricade, sweaty, his eye stinging from the blow to his face. The shouts of the crowd came back to him, swimming through the ringing in his ears. The claps on his bare back from the frenzied crowd registered vaguely. The slaps to his face from some of the more bold patrons added to the pain, his tingling skin rent open with the knuckle duster the Russian was wearing.

He flexed his left hand and turned about. The crowd gathered there gave up a loud cheer. The air was close, the Russian even closer. Blows fell against his torso and blindly John Watson fought back shooting a left for the fighter’s head. His reach wasn’t what the Russian’s was and the hit connected with naught but air as the man leaned back away from his swing only to return with another round of pummeling blows to his liver and solar plexus.

He was almost out of breath from it; he could feel his diaphragm fighting for room to expand and contract. John dragged his body from the edge of the ring, pushing into the Russian in his effort to move into a wider space. The larger man let him by, apparently eager to toy with him a bit more just to rile the crowd. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the smug grin on the man’s ruddy face as he pandered to the crowd: arms held wide and turning in a slow circle in triumph, drinking in the adoration. There was his opening.

John took a breath and leapt, curling his right elbow around the outstretched right arm of the brute and using it as leverage to swing his body up behind the cretin. Then his legs were wrapped to either side around the great man’s bull neck. John locked his ankles together and heaved backward, his weight shifting the center of gravity on the behemoth. The ground came up quickly and John took the fall flat on his back, the Russian following him down.

John still held the Russian’s arm and he switched his hold on it quickly to hyperextend the elbow and put pressure on a shoulder he knew to already be damaged. A strangling cry came from the Russian as his ruddy face became beet red with his struggle. The left hand of the man attempted to reach across his own chest to do something to alleviate the surging pain in his right shoulder, but all he accomplished was to ineffectually slap at his own overstrained joint.

John arched his back, increasing the pressure on both the shoulder and the neck of the Russian. He heard the crowd’s mood shift: they were shocked. Somewhere inside John was a smug grin. Now what do you think of your fucking Hun, you bastards, he thought. Someone in the crowd shouted: “You fucking limey coward!” and that tore it. John tightened his ankles together even harder than before, his back arching even further with the effort. He did not fight for this country only to come home to epithets and derision from the very people whose empire he had attempted to defend.

He could feel the Russian slowly slipping into unconsciousness. As the man’s eyes closed he heard the crowd sour against him. He hadn’t been the favorite to win and now they were angry. Too fucking bad.

 

~080~

 

“You should really consider going back into medicine, John,” said Michael. He was daubing at a cut above John’s ear with some iodine on a cotton ball. “All this is just ridiculous. You’re better than this.”

“Bollocks to that,” said John. He wanted a long soaking bath. He wanted a clean suit. He wanted a hot meal. And then he wanted rest. And he wanted all of it in that order. What he did not want was another lecture from Michael Stamford, doctor of medicine. Michael couldn’t understand him no matter how he tried. His desperate pleading to convince John to stop entering these fighting matches was beginning to rankle; it was none of his business. “I’m no better or worse than any man anywhere.”

“But you’re a healer, not… not this,” said Michael with a pained expression. He waived a hand about the room. “This is not where you belong. You deserve to work in a sanatorium or better yet: you deserve your own surgery, your own practice. All this devilishness is not you, John.” John slipped off the table upon which he sat and moved to put his shirt on. Stamford stared at his back. “Man, you behave as though you had an axe to grind; as though each man you fight has slighted you in some way. The war is over, John. You are home. Settle down and become respectable.”

“Your ‘respectability’ can go to the devil, Michael Stamford,” he replied. His joints didn’t want to move to put his shirt on, but he forced them to anyway.

Michael heaved a heavy sigh. “Very well,” he said. “But do not call on me again when next you need your wounds patched up. I cannot face the man you’ve become, John.” He packed his medical bag and closed the door quietly behind him.

“Michael!” John called after him. His shoulders sunk and then they ached – especially the left. It was always the left one. He looked at the scar that spread out along his skin. It was nothing compared to its brother on his back, but it still made him feel more imperfect than necessary, weaker. And that feeling just made him angry. But in the empty room they gave him for changing, there was nothing to hit except the plaster walls.

His hands were swollen and he couldn’t button all the buttons on his shirt. His hands shook. He took a breath and sat in the lone chair in the room.

“Johnny!” Bill Murray's bellow was unmistakable. He burst through the door waving a wad of cash. “We cleaned up tonight, mate!”

“Good,” said John. “That Russian bastard gave me a pummeling.”

“And it was good of you to let him, Captain Watson,” said Bill. John glared at him and Bill held up his hands in self defense. “Right, fine… _John_. My apologies. Now then… do you want your cut?”

“Of course,” said John. He made another aborted attempt at buttoning his shirt. He looked helplessly at Bill for a split second and sighed. Without a word, Bill stepped to him and fastened each button for him, helped him with his waistcoat and great coat, fastening each button in quiet reverence.

“You headed to Blackwood’s?” he asked.

“I owe him the money in my hand and more,” said John. “You’d better book me another in a few days.”

Bill looked him in the face. “Johnny, you’re giving yourself quite a punishment. Are you certain?”

“I owe him,” John replied simply. “It’s the only way to make enough to pay him off.”

“Well,” Bill said. “It’s one way. But it’s not the only way. Come with me to a gaming hall. I’m a bit of a regular. They know me. I’ll vouch for your credit and you can double down on what you’ve got. You’ll be able to pay back Blackwood and still have some dosh for later. Trust in me, John. It’s a place I know not to be crooked.”

John looked at the money in his hand. It was most of all he had in the world. If he gambled and lost…

“John,” said Bill. “It’ll be alright, mate. Then you won’t have to half kill yourself to make good on your debts.”

Bill Murray had been under his command in the king’s army. He was an orderly who was used to taking orders not giving them, but he had proved himself to be tried and true in the face of the enemy; he wouldn't willingly mislead John. “Give me the night to think on it.”

“Fair enough,” said Bill.

“And set me up for another fight. Two day’s time,” said John.

“John-” started Bill.

“Two days,” said John.


End file.
